Chapter 258: No Retreat
The Aegis Legion Centurion's gauntlets gripped his tower-shield with
white-knuckled intensity. Outside, the Crimson Boundary had fully enveloped Gale
City, a dome of malevolent red energy that pressed against their own defenses
with the weight of a dying sun.
The sapphire-blue Mana-shield, under the relentless squeeze of the Crimson
Boundary, had been deformed from its original perfect dome into a jagged,
irregular oval. Every second, the air was filled with a terrifying crackling
sound—the groan of a magical structure reaching its breaking point.
The Centurion turned his skull, looking back at the thousands of Aegis Giants
behind him, all maintaining the same braced posture. Their soulfire burned with
a steady, clinical calm. No one spoke. In the Aegis Legion, words were a luxury;
their purpose was expressed through the weight of their iron.
They had been born with a singular directive: Guard.
Guard the soil. Guard the subjects. Guard the glory of the Sovereign. Even if
the price was a permanent, lightless termination.
The Centurion drew a sharp breath of stagnant air. He knew that reinforcements
were far away. Even with the maximum velocity of Dragon Aviation, it would take
two full days for the main legions to transit from the Iron Fortress to the Gale
Prairie.
Their shield had two hours left. At most.
[The line terminates with us,] the Centurion broadcasted through the Soul Link,
reaching every unit still capable of receiving a signal. He knew most of the
vanguard had been silenced by the Time Cage, but he spoke anyway. It was his
duty.
"ALL UNITS: HIGH ALERT!" "SURRENDER YOUR SPARKS TO THE SOVEREIGN! LEAVE YOUR
GLORY TO THE EMPIRE!"
Thousands of Aegis Giants responded in a synchronized mental roar that rattled
the city gates.
"AS COMMANDED!"
Outside the aegis, the pressure of the Crimson Boundary intensified. The blue
radiance was dimming, and jagged fissures began to race across the surface of
the shield. The Centurion felt his Od being siphoned away at an impossible rate.
As he felt his strength flagging, his soulfire flickered with a strange,
fleeting thought. I have never actually seen the Sovereign. As a newly promoted
border-officer, he had never stood before the throne. But he knew the Master was
watching. He knew every drop of Od spent in this ditch was accounted for.
[My Sovereign,] he whispered into the void of the link. [Bear witness. The Aegis
Legion does not retreat.]
Inside the subterranean shelters, the chanting of the Sisters had tapered off
into a heavy, expectant silence.
The thunderous explosions from the surface had ceased long ago, but no
"All-Clear" signal had been issued. There were no bells of victory. To the
inhabitants of Gale City, the silence was more terrifying than the noise. It
meant only one thing: the Imperial Vanguard had fallen.
"What do we do... what are we going to do...?" a human woman sobbed, clutching
her child so tight the boy gasped. "Are they coming for us? Are the monsters
coming inside?"
The Sisters of the Cathedral moved through the huddle, trying to project a calm
they didn't feel. Their own voices carried a slight, metallic tremor. "Do not
surrender to despair... the Sovereign's logic is absolute... he will provide..."
"Provide what?!" A wealthy merchant in silk robes lunged to his feet, pointing a
trembling finger at the bunker exit. "The Vanguard is gone! The Seven Armies
have been erased! We're finished! We're all dead meat!"
His outburst was the spark the crowd had been fearing. Wails of terror and
frantic arguments erupted, turning the bunker into a pit of chaos.
"ENOUGH!"
A young Nun stood up, her voice hitting a sharp, piercing note that cut through
the clamor. "The Empire has not fallen! The main hosts of the Seven Generals
have yet to arrive!"
"The Sovereign persists! And as long as he stands, the Evernight is
unshakeable!"
The crowd quieted for a heartbeat, but the merchant sneered, his face a mask of
bitter cynicism. "The main hosts? Do you have any concept of the logistics?! By
the time they arrive, our bones will have been chewed to splinters!"
"I'm done waiting for a miracle! I'm going back to my warehouse! If I'm going to
die, I'll die with my gold!"
The merchant roared, shoving his way through the crowd toward the exit. He
hadn't taken three steps when a massive, green-skinned hand slammed onto his
shoulder, hoisting him off the ground as if he were a sack of grain.
"Release me! You miserable, stinking—!"
The merchant's curse died in his throat as he looked back. He was staring into
the face of an Orc over two meters tall. The Orc bared his tusks in a wide,
savage grin.
"So," the Orc rumbled, his voice like grinding stones, yet carrying an
unsettling note of excitement. "It's finally the beastkins' turn to take the
stage, yeah?"
He tossed the merchant aside like a piece of refuse, cracked his knuckles, and
began a heavy, purposeful stride toward the exit ramp.
The merchant hit the dirt, staring in disbelief. "You're mad! You'll be
slaughtered the second you clear the gates!"
The Orc didn't look back. He merely raised a hand in a casual wave. "I quite
like this Empire. It's given my pups a future."
He paused at the threshold of the red-lit world outside. "And besides... an Orc
never fears a proper brawl."
With that, he stepped out into the crimson glare of the war-zone.
The shelter went silent. Every soul watched the empty doorway. Then, a second
Orc stood up. Then a third. A fourth. Every beastkin in the shelter—male,
female, old, and young—pushed themselves to their feet and began a silent,
disciplined march toward the surface. They didn't speak. Their actions were
their manifesto.
The Father of the local Evernight Cathedral, who had remained silent in his
corner, finally stood. He straightened his robes and offered his usual,
grandfatherly smile.
"They act as if only the beastkin possess a heart for this Empire," the Priest
murmured. He began his own walk toward the exit. The Sisters exchanged a glance,
stood in unison, and followed their lead.
"The Evernight is with us," they whispered.
As the clergy departed, the contagion of courage spread. An Elf who had once
been a tracker in the Great Forests stood. "Count my blade."
A heavily muscled Dwarven smith followed, gripping a forging hammer larger than
a human head. "And mine."
A human on leave from a territorial militia stood and unbuttoned his civilian
tunic, revealing a suit of well-oiled leather armor. "The Empire gave me
everything. It's time I paid the interest."
One by one, the citizens rose. Men, women, elders, even youths who had only just
reached adulthood. They were of different bloodlines, different trades, and
different histories. But in that moment, they shared a singular identity.
The merchant watched them go, his mouth hanging open in a silent "O." "You're
all insane... it's suicide!"
No one answered him. Soon, the shelter held only a few mothers with infants and
a handful of those paralyzed by terror. The merchant looked at the empty hall
and felt a cold, sharp wave of shame wash over him.
He looked down at his trembling, manicured hands.
"Dammit!" he snarled, his voice breaking. "I'm a Subject of the Evernight too!"
He broke into a staggering run, following the crowd toward the light of the war.
☆☆☆
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